Death was acceptable; stilling her voice was not. She turned to the bearded pilot. “How do you know about this bulletin?”
The man shrugged. “How do I know about the radar vectors? You pay me; I pay others. There’s no such thing as a clear profit these days.”
“Does the bulletin say why this … old woman … is wanted?”
“It’s a strange alert, madame. It states clearly that she is traveling with false papers, but she is not to be picked up. Her whereabouts are to be reported to Interpol-Paris, where they will be relayed to New York.”
“New York?”
“That’s where the request originated. The police in New York, a detective-lieutenant named Miles.”
“Miles?” Althene frowned. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“Perhaps this woman has,” said the pilot, shifting the cigar in his mouth.
Althene closed her eyes. “How would you like to make a very clear profit?”
“I’m no communist; the word doesn’t offend me. How?”
“Hide me in Geneva. Help me reach someone.”
The pilot checked his panel, then banked to the right. “It will cost you.”
“I’ll pay,” she said.
Johann von Tiebolt paced the hotel suite, a graceful, angry animal, consumed. His audience was composed of the brothers Kessler; the first deputy of canton Genève had left minutes ago. The three were alone; the tension was apparent.
“She’s somewhere in Geneva,” said Von Tiebolt. “She has to be.”
“Obviously under an assumed name,” added Hans Kessler, his medical bag at his feet. “We’ll find her. It’s merely a question of fanning men out, after giving them a description. Our deputy has assured us it’s no problem.”
Von Tiebolt stopped his pacing. “No problem? I trust you and he have examined this ‘no problem.’ According to our deputy, the Geneva police report an Interpol bulletin on her. Quite simply, that means she’s traveled a minimum of four thousand miles without being found. Four thousand miles through banks of computers, on aircraft crossing borders and landing with manifests, through at least two immigration points. And there’s nothing. Don’t fool yourself, Hans. She’s better than we thought she was.”
“Tomorrow’s Friday,” said Erich. “Holcroft is due tomorrow, and he’ll get in touch with us. When we have him, we have her.”
“He said he was staying at the d’Accord, but he has changed his mind. There is no reservation, and Mr. Fresca has checked out of the George Cinq.” Von Tiebolt stood by the window. “I don’t like it. Something’s wrong.”
Hans reached for his drink. “I think you’re overlooking the obvious.”
“What?”
“By Holcroft’s lights, a great deal is wrong. He thinks people are after him; he’ll be cautious, and he’ll travel cautiously. I’d be surprised if he did make a reservation in his own name.”
“I assumed the name would be Fresca, or a derivation I’d recognize,” said Von Tiebolt, dismissing the younger Kessler’s observation. “There’s nothing like it in any hotel in Geneva.”
“Is there a Tennyson,” asked Erich softly, “or anything like it?”
“Helden?” Johann turned.
“Helden.” The older Kessler nodded. “She was with him in Paris. It’s to be assumed she’s helping him; you even suggested it.”
Von Tiebolt stood motionless. “Helden and her filthy, wandering outcasts are preoccupied at the moment. They’re scouring the ODESSA for the killers of Herr Oberst.”
“Falkenheim?” Hans sat forward. “Falkenheim’s dead?”
“Falkenheim was the leader of the Nachrichtendienst—the last functioning member, to be precise. With his death, Wolfsschanze is unopposed. His army of Jews will be headless; what little they know, buried with their leaders.”
“Jews? With Nachrichtendienst?” Erich was exasperated. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”
“A strike has been called on the kibbutz Har Sha’alav; Rache terrorists will be held responsible. I’m sure the name ‘Har Sha’alav’ has meaning for you. At the last, the Nachrichtendienst turned to the Jews of Har Sha’alav. Garbage to garbage.”
“I should like a more specific explanation!” said Erich.
“Later. We must concentrate on the Holcrofts. We must …” Von Tiebolt stopped, a thought striking him. “Priorities. Always look to priorities,” he added, as if talking to himself. “And the first priority is the document at La Grande Banque de Genève, which means the son takes precedence. Find him; isolate him; keep him in absolute quarantine. For our purposes, it need only be for thirty-odd hours.”
“I don’t follow you,” interrupted Hans. “What happens in thirty hours?”
“The three of us will have met with the bank’s directors,” Erich said. “Everything will have been signed, executed in the presence of the Grande Banque’s attorney, all the laws of Switzerland observed. The money will be released to Zurich, and we assume control Monday morning.”
“But thirty hours from Friday morning is—”
“Saturday noon,” completed Von Tiebolt. “We meet with the directors Saturday morning at nine o’clock. There was never any question of our acceptance—except in Holcroft’s mind. Manfredi took care of that months ago. We’re not only acceptable; we’re damn near holy men. My letter from MI Five is merely a final crown. By Saturday noon it will have been accomplished.”
“They’re so anxious to lose seven hundred and eighty million dollars they will open the bank on a Saturday?”
The blond man smiled. “I made the request in Holcroft’s name, for reasons of speed and confidentiality. The directors didn’t object—they look for crumbs— and neither will Holcroft when we tell him. He has his own reasons for wanting everything over with. He’s stretched to the limits of his capacities.” Von Tiebolt glanced at Erich, his smile broader. “He looks upon us both as friends, as pillars of strength, as two men he desperately needs. The programming has exceeded our hopes.”
Kessler nodded. “By noon Saturday he’ll have signed the final condition.”
“What final condition?” asked Hans, alarmed. “What does that mean? What does he sign?”
“We each will have signed it,” answered Von Tiebolt, pausing for emphasis. “It’s a requirement of Swiss law for the release of such accounts. We’ve met, and fully understand our responsibilities; we’ve come to know each other and to trust each other. Therefore, in the event one of us predeceases the others, each assigns all rights and privileges to his coinheritors. Except, of course, the stipend of two million, which is to be distributed to the individual’s heirs. That two million—legally assigned and prohibited from being given to the other executors—removes any motive for double-cross.”
The younger Kessler whistled softly. “Utterly brilliant. So this final condition—this death clause wherein you each assign to the others your responsibility—never had to be made part of the document… because it’s the law. If it had been included, Holcroft might have been suspicious from the beginning.” The doctor shook his head in respect, his eyes bright “But it never was because it’s the law.”
“Precisely. And every legality must be observed. A month—six weeks—from now, it’ll be irrelevant, but until we’ve made substantive progress, there can be no alarms.”
“I understand that,” said Hans. “But actually, by Saturday noon, Holcroft’s expendable, isn’t he?”
Erich held up his hand. “Best put him under your drugs for a period of time, available for display, as it were. A functioning mental cripple … until a great portion of the funds is dispersed. By then it won’t matter; the world will be too preoccupied to care about an accident in Zurich. Right now we must do as Johann says. We must find Holcroft before his mother does.”
“And under one pretext or another,” added Von Tiebolt, “keep him isolated until our meeting the day after tomorrow. She will undoubtedly try to reach him, and then we will know where she is. We have men in Geneva
who can take care of the rest.” He hesitated. “As always, Hans, your brother addresses himself to what is optimum. But the answer to your question is yes. By noon Saturday, Holcroft is expendable. When I think about it, I’m not sure the additional weeks are even desirable.”
“You annoy me again,” said the scholar. “I defer to your exotic mind in many things, but a deviation in strategy at this juncture is hardly welcome. Holcroft must be available. In your words, until ‘substantive progress’ is made, there can be no alarms.”
“I don’t think there will be,” replied Von Tiebolt. “The change I’m implementing would be approved by our fathers. I’ve moved up the timetable.”
“You’ve what?”
“When I used the word ‘alarms,’ I referred to legalities, not Holcroft. Legalities are constant; life spans, never.”
“What timetable? Why?”
“Second question first, and you may answer it.” Johann stood in front of the older Kessler’s chair. “What was the single most effective weapon of war the Fatherland employed? What strategy would have brought England to her knees had there been no hesitation? What were the lightning bolts that shook the world?”
“Blitzkrieg,” said the doctor, answering for his brother.
“Yes. Swift, sharp onslaughts, out of nowhere. Men and weapons and machinery, sweeping across borders with extraordinary speed, leaving in their wake confusion and devastation. Whole peoples divided, unable to reform ranks, incapable of making decisions. The Blitzkrieg, Erich. We must adapt it now; we can’t hesitate.”
“Abstractions, Johann! Give me specifics!”
“Very well. Specific one: John Tennyson has written an article that will be picked up by the wire services and flashed everywhere tomorrow. The Tinamou kept records, and there is talk that they’ve been found. Names of those powerful men who’ve hired him, dates, sources of payments. It will have the effect of massive electric shocks throughout the world’s power centers. Specific two: Saturday, the Geneva document is executed, the funds transferred to Zurich. Sunday, we move to our headquarters there; they’ve been prepared; all communications are functioning. If Holcroft is with us, Hans has him narcotized; if not, he’s dead. Specific three: Monday, the assets are deemed liquid and in our control. Using the Greenwich time zones, we begin cabling funds to our people, concentrating on the primary targets. We start right here in Geneva. Then to Berlin, Paris, Madrid, Lisbon, London, Washington, New York, Chicago, Houston, Los Angeles, and San Francisco. By five, Zurich time, we move into the Pacific Honolulu, the Marshalls, and the Gilberts. By eight we go into New Zealand, Auckland, and Wellington. By ten, it’s Australia—Brisbane, Sydney, Adelaide—then to Perth and across to Singapore, into the Far East. The first phase stops in New Delhi; on paper we’re financed over three quarters of the globe. Specific four: At the end of another twenty-four hours—Tuesday—we receive confirmations that the funds have been received and converted into cash, ready for use. Specific five: I will make twenty-three telephone calls from Zurich. They will be made to twenty-three men in various capitals who have employed the services of the Tinamou. They will be told that certain demands will be made of them during the next few weeks; they are expected to comply. Specific six: On Wednesday, it begins. The first killing will be symbolic. The Chancellor in Berlin, the leader of the Bundestag. We sweep westward in a Blitzkrieg.” Von Tiebolt paused for a moment. “On Wednesday, Code Wolfsschanze is activated.”
The telephone rang; at first no one seemed to hear it. Then Von Tiebolt answered it.
“Yes?”
He stared at the wall as he listened in silence. Finally he spoke. “Use the words I gave you,” he said softly. “Kill them.” He hung up.
“What is it?” asked the doctor.
Von Tiebolt, his hand still on the telephone, replied in a monotone. “It was only a guess—a possibility—but I sent a man to Neuchâtel. To observe someone. And that someone met with another. It’s no matter; they will soon be dead. My beautiful sister and a traitor named Werner Gerhardt.”
It did not make sense, thought Holcroft, as he listened to Willie Ellis’s words over the phone. He had reached Willie at the d’Accord from a booth in Geneva’s crowded Place Neuve, fully expecting the designer to have made contact with Althene by now. He hadn’t; she wasn’t there. But his mother had said the Hôtel d’Accord. She would meet him at the Hôtel d’Accord.
“Did you describe her? An American, around seventy, tall for a woman?”
“Naturally. Everything you mentioned a half hour ago. There’s no one here by the name of Holcroft, or any woman fitting the description. There are no Americans at all.”
“It’s crazy.” Noel tried to think. Tennyson and the Kesslers weren’t due until evening; he had no one to turn to. Was his mother doing the same thing he was doing? Trying to reach him from outside the hotel, expecting he’d be there? “Willie, call up the front desk and say you just heard from me. Use my name. Tell them I asked you if there were any messages for me.”
“I don’t think you understand the rules in Geneva,” Willie said. “Messages between two people aren’t given to unknown third parties, and the d’Accord is no exception. Frankly, when I asked about your mother, I was given some very odd looks. Despite my Louis Vuitton, the little bastard couldn’t wait for me to stop talking.”
“Try it anyway.”
“There’s a better way. I think if I—” Willie stopped; from somewhere in the distance there was a tapping. “Just a minute; there’s someone at the door. I’ll get rid of whoever it is and be right back.”
Noel could hear the sound of a door opening. There were voices, indistinct, questioning; a brief exchange took place, and then there were footsteps. Holcroft waited for Willie to get back on the line.
There was the sound of a cough, but more than a cough. What was it? The start of a cry? Was it the start of a cry?
“Willie?”
Silence. Then footsteps again.
“Willie?” Suddenly, Noel felt cold. And pain came back to his stomach as he remembered the words. The same words!
… There’s someone at the door. I’ll get rid of whoever it is and be right back.…
Another Englishman. Four thousand miles away in New York. And a match flaring up in the window across the courtyard.
Peter Baldwin.
“Willie! Willie, where are you?! Willie!”
There was a click. The line went dead.
Oh, Christ! What had he done? Willie!
Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead; his hands trembled.
He had to get to the d’Accord! He had to get there as fast as he could and find Willie, help Willie. Oh, Christ! He wished the hammering pain would get out of his eyes!
He ran out of the phone booth and down the street to his car. He started the engine, unsure for a moment where he was or where he was going. The d’Accord. Hôtel d’Accord! It was on the rue des Granges, near the Puits-Saint-Pierre; a street lined with enormous old houses—mansions. The d’Accord was the largest. On the hill… what hill? He had no idea how to get there!
He sped down to the corner; the traffic was stopped. He yelled through his window at a startled woman driving the car next to his.
“Please! The rue des Granges—which way?”
The woman refused to acknowledge his shouts; she pulled her eyes away and looked straight ahead.
“Please, someone’s been hurt! I think hurt badly. Please, lady! I can’t speak French very well. Or German, or … please!”
The woman turned back to him, studying him for a moment. Then she leaned over and rolled down the window.
“Rue des Granges?”
“Yes, please!”
She gave him rapid instructions. Five streets down, turn right toward the bottom of the hill, then left.…
The traffic started up. Perspiring, Noel tried to memorize every word, every number, every turn. He shouted his thanks and pressed the accelerator.
He would never know how he fou
nd the old street, but it was suddenly there. He drove up the steep incline toward the top and saw the flat gold lettering: HÔTEL D’ACCORD.
His hands shaking, he parked the car and got out. He had to lock it; twice he tried to insert the key but could not hold his hand steady enough. So he held his breath and pressed his fingers against the metal until they stopped trembling. He had to control himself now; he had to think. Above all, he had to be careful. He had seen the enemy before, and he had fought that enemy. He could do so again.
He looked up at the d’Accord’s ornate entrance. Beyond the glass doors, he could see the doorman talking with someone in the lobby. He could not go through that entrance and into that lobby; if the enemy had trapped Willie Ellis, that enemy was waiting for him.
There was a narrow alley that sloped downward at the side of the building. On the stone wall was a sign: LIVRAISONS.
Somewhere in that alley was a delivery entrance. He pulled the collar of his raincoat up around his neck and walked across the pavement, putting his hands in his pockets, feeling the steel of the revolver in his right, the perforated cylinder of the silencer in his left. He thought briefly of the giver, of Helden. Where was she? What had happened?
Nothing is as it was for you.…
Nothing at all.
He reached the door as a tradesman in a white smock coat was leaving. He held up his hand and smiled at the man.
“Excuse me. Do you speak English?”
“But of course, monsieur. This is Geneva.”
It was a harmless joke—that’s all—but the foolish American with the broad smile would pay fifty francs for the cheap coat, twice its value new. The exchange was made swiftly; this was Geneva. Holcroft removed his raincoat and folded it over his left arm. He put on the smock and went inside.